


craft a miracle with these hands, lips, (silence)

by chrysanthe (sonderesque)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonderesque/pseuds/chrysanthe
Summary: ‘Someone is here to ruin your night,’ his door tells him. ‘You should let them in.’“I’M HOMELESS OMI-OMI. HOMELESS,” yells the one here to ruin his night. “LET ME IN.”(What does Kiyoomi sell his sanctuary for?)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 389





	craft a miracle with these hands, lips, (silence)

**Author's Note:**

> takes place when they're about around 20ish. kiyoomi is currently in college in this fic (since he goes right in straight from high school) vs. atsumu who joins the pro circuit as soon as he can

There is a knock at Kiyoomi’s door just past 11:11pm on a Thursday night. 

To be more exact, it’s less of a singular knock and more of a constant persistent rhythm of knuckles rapping wood. He counts twenty seven in the span of ten seconds. It does not stop. Kiyoomi also knows that it is 11:11pm and precisely 47 seconds. 48, 49, 50. You could round up at this point. Now it is 11:12. The thumping does not stop; Sakusa Kiyoomi does not get to wish for the visitor to go away. 

_‘Someone is here to ruin your night,’_ his door tells him. _‘You should let them in.’_

“I’M HOMELESS OMI-OMI. HOMELESS,” yells the one here to ruin his night. “LET ME IN.”

* * *

Kiyoomi does not take advice from inanimate objects, nor is he in the habit of willingly ruining his own evening. He is, however, quite aware that his neighbour only tolerates his vacuuming during the day because he, in turn, tolerates her three month old puppy barking its head off. If the puppy begins barking because of the knocking, it will spiral into filed complaints and lead to his eviction. This will force Kiyoomi to start tap dancing outside coffee shops for five yen coins to throw into fountains of chlorinated water, making wishes for his apartment back. Kiyoomi does not want to tap dance for coins. Chlorinated water is most likely not sentient enough to listen to his wishes anyways. 

Unwilling to usurp this tenuous stalemate, Kiyoomi takes one for the team and opens the door. His hands are already planted on his hips; this is his default ‘disappointed’ position. Lips turned down in an unimpressed frown, he stares at Miya Atsumu, who has taken to sprawling on the carpeted floor of his apartment building while using his gym bag as a makeshift pillow. His hand is half raised, ready to knock on the door again. It is a terrible look on him.

“I could call the police on you,” comes Kiyoomi's cordial hello. 

Atsumu leaps to his feet, an explosion of movement that likens him more to the puppy next door rather than a fully fledged human adult. He may be the farthest being from a fully fledged human adult Kiyoomi knows. “I convinced one of the tenants to let me follow when they came inside,” he says innocently. 

A phone comes out immediately. “That’s creepy." 

“Don’t call the cops!” Atsumu yelps, grabbing a bag just out of Kiyoomi’s periphery. The logo of Onigiri Miya is emblazoned on the side, droplets of moisture visible through the translucent white plastic. “I brought umeboshi onigiri from Osamu!” 

When Kiyoomi asks for the knocking on the door to stop, he asks for a miracle. He has no five yen coins on hand, no fountain to seek wishes from. This does not mean he is granted salvation before a price. Here is a nervous grin; a peace offering outstretched in his hand. What will he sell his sanctuary for? 

Kiyoomi carefully considers his options. He’s ordered before, knows exactly what he’ll get out of it: fresh local ingredients, delicious recipes, a miniature model of your home as a souvenir to keep in the pocket of your jeans. This home is not yours, but it could be. Attention to detail has always made Miya Osamu the more tolerable twin between the two in his eyes, but it’s not him in front of Kiyoomi now. Miya Atsumu has changed; the skin on his lips is chapped and bitten away, body broken then mended stronger-- there are new scars. He has stayed the same; his fist still out, unwavering the same way he swore that he would take the world by storm. It still rages, the natural disaster of a boy. Miya Atsumu is not yours, but he could be.

He sells his sanctuary for seven umeboshi onigiri and someone he has not seen in a year and a half. Kiyoomi takes the offering, invites the devil to follow him in.

“You should have stayed with your brother.” 

Groaning, Atsumu leans against Kiyoomi’s counter. His volleyball bag lands heavily on the ground. “He kicked me out immediately. Said it was my problem that I missed the train back to Osaka. I didn’t have anywhere else to go." He claps his hands together, bows his head slightly at Kiyoomi, who is unpacking the food and grabbing one for himself. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow morning! Just let me stay over for tonight.”

“There are internet cafes,” he replies uncaringly. 

A tiny pout sits on Atsumu's face. It is not as cute as he thinks it looks. “Is it so hard to believe that I wanted to come visit an old friend?” 

Kiyoomi's eyes narrow, eyebrows perfectly arched in a confident disbelief. One does not need to know Miya Atsumu on a personal level to know when he's full of shit. Reading the lines of Kiyoomi's scowl behind the onigiri he’s eating, he laughs a little as he shakes his head. 

“Not an old friend, then," Atsumu amends. He looks up, expression unreadable. " _You_.”

* * *

Let it be known that Miya Atsumu is a liar. 

Staying over for “tonight” becomes another night two weeks later, which becomes another night two weeks later, and suddenly Kiyoomi has begun to expect Atsumu’s bi-monthly arrival as if on schedule. He remains adamant that there is no schedule, but here they are regardless.

It starts with the knocking. The knocking is the worst part because Atsumu has some sort of obsession with knocking on 11:11, says it’s his luck that convinces Kiyoomi to open the door. He’s not surprised that Atsumu doesn’t consider that perhaps there are other people in the same apartment building complex and Kiyoomi is not about to be a public nuisance. Some convincing had to be done, but in exchange for letting Atsumu borrow his shower, he actually begins showing up at a more reasonable time. Kiyoomi still cannot figure out how Atsumu is making his way past the front entrance of the apartment though, which is something he should bring up to the security actually. 

After dinner, which Atsumu thankfully provides, they spend hours talking. Or rather, it’s easy to get Atsumu started on a topic and have him spiral from there. Kiyoomi used to put on conspiracy videos as he worked on homework for his college classes, something barely coherent enough to absorb and half-listen to, but with Atsumu there, he simply sits at the kitchen island and works as he babbles about volleyball or random stories. They talk about everything, nothing, anything in-between. Kiyoomi learns about how Atsumu had pretty much gone pro straight from high school, and Atsumu learns that Kiyoomi never did stop playing, still on a college team. Neither of them bother with pretenses; everything is up for grabs. 

The first year and a bit in this apartment had been quiet, uneventful, just the way Kiyoomi likes it. Now, his quiet has been traded in for the devil, for his stories. Traded for the way Atsumu looks at him when he thinks Kiyoomi isn’t looking, like he’s the one all the 5 yen coins are for. This is new, different. He has never been the one that people wish for. 

* * *

Atsumu's knocking habits are awful.

From the time Atsumu attempted to use morse code to spell 'I'm hungry let me in' (Kiyoomi does not know morse code) to the time he kept drumming at the door a half beat off to the song he was blasting in his earbuds, Kiyoomi has heard it all-- well, almost all. There are wince-inducing scratching noises at the door, and with the iteration of human chaos shoved into a six foot package due to come over today, Kiyoomi is not so foolish to completely discard the possibility that Atsumu may be scratching his name into his door.

He considers arming himself with the pepper spray under his pillow, before forgoing it entirely for a mask and gloves. All things considered, if it's anything terrible, he can just let Atsumu sleep in the hallways for the night. The door creaks open, carefully, a shield between him and the world. Expectations are low, morale is even lower...

Oh. Somehow, this is both parts worse and better than what he was expecting.

Atsumu's head is less of a head and more a head-sized living snowball moving towards him. The snowball has eyes. And a tongue. A familiar harvest gold mop of hair pops up beside the ball of fluff, smiling widely at Kiyoomi. The snowball smiles just as widely; it looks a little like a volleyball. No wonder Atsumu is so delighted.

“I have stolen a puppy,” he declares proudly. 

Not for the first time in recent memory, Kiyoomi witnesses Atsumu commit a crime. Unfortunately for him, terrible people become marginally better with baby animals in their hands. The crime Atsumu commits is less about theft and more about how happy he looks, how he smiles and suddenly Kiyoomi is back on the other side of the net. His heart is in his throat, pounding. Where is the salt? He should have mummified this feeling when they graduated.

"You are not allowed inside with that dog." This is more for his safety than the cleanliness of his apartment.

“It’s cute, just like me,” Atsumu moves the dog even closer to his face. A tiny sliver of pink pops out as it tries to lick his face. Sakusa backs up. “Now let us in,” he threatens with a puppy in hand.

Perhaps the problem with mummies is that the movies have always told him that the dead never stayed dead; his heart does not stay quiet. The long sigh building in his chest is exhaled in a single breath. It comes out less annoyed and more faintly exasperated. “Miy-- Atsumu, shut up.”

Atsumu nearly drops the puppy. “Wait. Did you just call me Atsumu?!" "Omi--”

Ah. This really is worse than he expected. It is time for a tactical retreat. Reevaluate the strategy. Step one: pull yourself from situations in which the unknown element could kill you-- there are many things out there that could hurt you, and Atsumu with a puppy may be just one of them. He pets the dog once on the head. Looks straight at Atsumu as he shuts the door in his face.

  
  
  
  


“The dog’s name is Michie by the way,” Atsumu says. 

Kiyoomi watches as he flops onto the couch belly-first. His wet hair leaves damp spots on the pillows and the cloth; several mental notes are made to clean those spots extra well after Atsumu leaves. If he stares too long, there becomes an art to his positioning, elegance on a couch in a seedy part of the city. Sprawled out, he looks like David in Michelangelo’s painting, only in basketball shorts and an oversized tiger t-shirt. A parody of a masterpiece in the making is still inspired from a masterpiece. 

“You’re going to get me evicted,” Kiyoomi says to the t-shirt.

Atsumu waves a careless hand in the air, brushing away any valid concerns the same way one might brush their hair. It does not seem like Atsumu brushes his hair. Kiyoomi, therefore, stays mildly concerned. “Rikiko-san loves me,” he replies confidently. “Plus you’re the whole reason I even managed to get Michie. The whole point of it was to get you to smile, but you didn’t.” An accusing finger gets pointed in Kiyoomi’s vague direction, nowhere close to where he’s actually standing.

He shrugs. “I experience emotions every full moon.”

“Well I didn’t want to wait that long, so I drew this on a mask!” Atsumu pulls a plastic bag out of who-knows-where. A cartoonishly wide grin is stark black, marring a once clean surgical mask. 

“You drew a smile. On a mask.” He only has mere moments to react before it’s launched at him. The ziploc baggie gets less than two feet away from the couch, drifting pathetically to the floor. Kiyoomi mourns the death of a valiant soldier. 

“It’s this, or I make you smile for real.”

Kiyoomi can’t believe he sold his sanctuary for _this._ “Neither.”

The devil shakes his head. Is it disappointment or is it the flat refusal of his answer? He can’t tell. There is no out, only leaping further into the mouth of the beast. This is what the tiger must be here for. Make a vow, then devour him whole. Take a risk and watch it fall out of your hands. 

* * *

By the seventh visit, Atsumu learns to book his train ride for the afternoon so he can continue to be a nuisance to Kiyoomi for a full 12 hours rather than just the evening and early morning. In response to this, Kiyoomi sets strict rules that that Atsumu is to go nowhere near the kitchen, among a nine page list of other dos and don'ts that Atsumu definitely did not read. Breakfast for two in the morning is completely forfeited for the brunch restaurant next to the train station to kill time before his train. Kiyoomi, in desperate need of caffeine in the mornings, has also managed to drill his expensive coffee order at the hipster cafe into Atsumu. For the most part, Kiyoomi finds he doesn’t completely hate it, which is the most surprising thing of all.

“Have you seen my jersey?” Atsumu calls from the living room.

“Laundry,” Kiyoomi answers from his desk. Papers are scattered everywhere, a battlefield of assignments if there ever was one. “I won’t be able to come with you for breakfast. I have to do some studying before a class.”

The door to his laundry opens and shuts noisily. “I’ll wait for you then.”

“You’ll miss your train.” 

“That’s okay!” A loud zip as Atsumu’s duffel opens and shuts again. His footsteps are considerably quieter as he pads across the apartment.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes privately, knows that Atsumu won’t leave unless they both go together. The college student in him hates the thought of spending more money than necessary, even if he knows that Atsumu definitely has no problem with it. Plus, the longer Atsumu sticks around, the less he’s going to get done anyways. Quickly, textbooks and worksheets are packed into his bag and Kiyoomi makes his way to the entrance, where Atsumu leans against his door scrolling through his phone.

He looks up and raises an eyebrow at the bag slung over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “What’s that for?”

“I’ll study there.” He responds, reaching just past Atsumu to open the door. “Let’s go before our spot gets taken.”

* * *

Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu does not play enough Tokyo games to warrant him coming over every other week. He knows this, but can’t find it in him to bring it up. He is not in the habit of making excuses for himself. Atsumu, when asked the question directly, finds a way to make it seem unavoidable: _‘it’s just something that happened Omi-kun!’_

With that line of thinking, it is inevitable then. Inevitability is the way Atsumu has taken to leaving his sweaters behind because it gets cold in Kiyoomi’s apartment early morning. Inevitability is when Kiyoomi leaves the blankets on the couch, neat and waiting for a warm body. Kiyoomi does not create this excuse for himself, so in theory, it must be okay for him to use it. 

What has he sold his sanctuary for? 

Just a few steps away from Kiyoomi, Atsumu spills water all over his shirt, toothbrush in hand and his towel hanging on a stand nearby. He laughs absentmindedly, pats at the wet spot and doesn’t worry about switching clothes. There’s one waiting for him if he really needs it after all. 

Under the same roof, the devil has made a place for himself, comfortable enough to take off his horns as he sleeps. 

* * *

11:11 and 47 seconds. 48, 49, 50... It is now 11:12.

Kiyoomi keeps his ears open for a knock at his door, but is paid back in silence. When did his apartment grow in size to fit someone else? Point to empty air in his living room where Atsumu’s bag always sits. Point at the dry towel in his bathroom. You have found the physical body of absence. It will not leave, even if you ask it nicely.

He asks nicely, once. Absence does not respond, and neither does Atsumu.

* * *

When Miya Osamu, the more tolerable twin, calls, he answers immediately.

“Atsumu isn’t here,” Kiyoomi says, in lieu of an actual greeting. A ‘hello’ is quite overrated these days. He’s not concerned about where Atsumu is, no. If anything, it’s great that he’s out of his hair. And if he happens to learn about his whereabouts? Then that’s par for the course, a wish made on 11:11.

“I know,” Osamu answers, also in lieu of an actual greeting. “The idiot is back home nursing a fever after he decided it was a good idea to go out running in just a t-shirt. He’s out cold right now, but he asked me to let you know that he’s sorry he can’t come this week. Says he has an important match that he needs to rest up for.”

“Okay.” A nod, followed by a quick shrug. Kiyoomi can feel the immediate rush of relief, unable to ignore it anymore than he could ignore the knocking at his door. “He could have just texted.”

“If it’s any consolation, I had to run his texts through Google Translate and guess his meaning from there.” 

“Thanks for letting me know,” he says. The body of absence laughs at him, then dances the salsa. It’s quite infuriating.

“Hey Sakusa--” Osamu starts his sentence, stops it. This could be the truth of the universe, the salty-sourness of it all. Quiet; listen. He tries again: “‘Tsumu doesn’t like umeboshi. He gave us food poisoning once when we were younger and refuses to touch it now because he thinks it’s going to eat him in his sleep.”

Kiyoomi repeats those words slowly, trying to make sense of it in his head. It’s not the revelation he expects, but it’s one that makes him stop. Think. Absence cackles at him, stops dancing to devour a refrigerated onigiri. The salty-sour umeboshi eats absence instead.

“There’s no compromising with him; he’s always been all or nothing,” Osamu continues without pause. Fondness, or an impressive mimicry, colours his voice. “I’m not saying that you need to be the same way, but-- what will you do _?_ ”

Twenty minutes later, Kiyoomi sends Atsumu a link to the Dummies’ guide for making chicken noodle soup. 

* * *

Snow is falling down heavily the next time Atsumu comes to visit. When he steps into the warmth of Kiyoomi’s apartment, the snowflakes are almost completely melted. Several still stick to the tips of his hair, but most become droplets of water crashing to the floor. This time, Kiyoomi does not make careful notes on where they fall (he throws a towel at Atsumu’s head). 

“Look, I have dinner.” Atsumu raises a plastic bag with two containers, setting it on the kitchen counter. “And before you ask, no I did not cook it. Rikiko-san gave me some leftovers after she heard I was sick.”

Kiyoomi snorts, watches him hang his jacket in the shoe closet. “You didn’t kidnap Michie this time.”

“Just me,” Atsumu says, apologetic as he makes his way back to where Kiyoomi is standing near the living room. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last week.”

“You had an important match--”

He shakes his head. “I just didn’t want you getting sick.” 

_Oh_. It’s the honesty. It’s the all or nothing. Ever since the moment Atsumu showed up at his door, Kiyoomi has never been nothing to him.

“Did you miss me?” Atsumu asks, a half-smile on his face. His arms come up, open. This is an offering. The tap dance for 5 yen coins to make wishes.

Kiyoomi, for all his sharp wit and brutally honest words, doesn’t shape his voice into words. He can’t. Not when Atsumu is looking at him as if he’s willing to dive in headfirst but needs this, needs Kiyoomi to give him something-- anything. Instead, he steps into Atsumu’s space, allowing himself to be wrapped up; Kiyoomi’s own arms coming up to pull him closer. He presses a smile into Atsumu’s collarbone. Out of sight, but into the very fabric of him.

Can he feel it? Does he know?

* * *

On most days, Kiyoomi no longer feels the need to call the police on Atsumu. Sure, there are some days in which Atsumu decides to do something stupid or dangerous, or stupid _and_ dangerous, but in most cases, it feels less like he’s about to get evicted and more just another story to complain to Komori about. 

_What will you do?_ Kiyoomi finishes the last of his assignments, then pulls out his very own risk, all or nothing style. It has sat there for weeks now, just waiting for Kiyoomi to give in. _What will you do?_

Atsumu looks up from the stretches he’s doing on Kiyoomi’s bedroom floor. His face pales slightly when he sees the tiny gift bag Kiyoomi is holding. He stands up with equal parts curiosity and apprehension on his face. “Is it an anniversary or something? Was I supposed to get you a gift too, because if I was, it’s in the car.”

“You took the train to get here.”

“So then the car at home!”

“No. It’s not an anniversary.” Kiyoomi sighs, laughing faintly just towards the end of it. “Just open it.” He drops the small bag into Atsumu’s outstretched hand, takes a risk and lets it fall. 

Atsumu opens it slowly, eyes widening as he realizes what exactly he is given. A newly cut key sits, innocent yet heavy. One does not hand the answer to questions, the solution to puzzles, without expecting fallout. Absence peeks over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, wonders if this is its time to shine. “Is this…?” 

A small nod. If he lets his words out, then--

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says quietly, reverence in every sense of the word. _Kiyoomi_ , he says, and that’s what does it. 

Kiyoomi reaches out, brushing the pad of his thumb against Atsumu’s cheekbone. His jaw solid under his palm. Only two things have ever fit so well in his hands, and the other is a volleyball. How sharp this vulnerability must be to cut him open like this. How lucky he must be to live in the perpetual moment of 11:11, of giving away one version of peace for another. What else can he call the way Atsumu goes into a hush, pulls him closer and steals the sound off of his lips? The everything of life is condensed into a single point, a single vow. Absence is made complete. Devour this whole, and keep all the secrets you learn from him in exchange for yours. This is how the devil becomes a boy becomes the extension of a sanctuary. This is how love makes one quiet.

Here it is: a wish thrown into a fountain. Here is one blessing, the way Atsumu holds him firm, peppers light kisses on the moles on the right side of his face, makes his way across his face to his lips. Here is another blessing, the way he kisses the corners of Kiyoomi’s mouth, pulls a smile-- finally a real smile-- from him. The fountain is Kiyoomi, spilling, overflowing. Atsumu’s lips stop dancing across his face long enough for Kiyoomi to keep him in one place, long enough for him to kiss him deeply. He cannot tell if there is room for breath or if they’re just stealing oxygen from each other’s lungs. They are greedy and starving; they make the world go still in each other. Since high school, Atsumu has changed in multitudes, with his chapped lips and unknowable memories in that scar-covered body of his. But just for this moment, when Kiyoomi tugs at Atsumu’s bottom lip with teeth and swallows his gasp, Kiyoomi claims this sound as his, lets it sit in the pit of his stomach. He ties one end to his ribs and the other to Atsumu’s. This sound is theirs. This quiet is theirs. 

“Atsumu.” Kiyoomi pulls away, just an inch from him. All the words are hovering in this gap between them, breath suspended in thin air. What secret will it be? What will they learn? 

In a low whisper: “You need to stop knocking at my door.”

* * *

Sakusa Kiyoomi is not in the habit of many things. He cleans, persistently. He plays volleyball, persistently. He exists in the everyday of life, biting into the salty-sour umeboshi core of the universe. Sometimes he stains his teeth purple, then makes it clean again. Kiyoomi makes a mistake in thinking he has sold his sanctuary because that’s what it feels like: to have someone else take the reins, to have the devil walk into his home and find it good enough to stay. It’s still his own home though. It’s always been his, even when he first opened the door for someone new, old. For someone he hadn’t seen in a year and a half before, but falls so damn in love with anyway.

  
  
  


Miya Atsumu does not knock at 11:11pm and exactly 47 seconds anymore. He lets himself in with a key. Leaves his horns at the door beside his shoes.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wish there was more Sakusa in the manga, but at least the post time skip gave me a bit more to work with here! Sakuatsu dynamic is pretty entertaining to write haha. Thanks for reading!
> 
> [ Come talk to me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/saturnitie)! ]


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